


The Night That Clara Ran Away

by HannahTheScribe



Series: I’ll Give You [4]
Category: Original Work
Genre: Adult Content, Alternative Lifestyles, Alternative Sexuality, Authority Figures, BDSM, BDSM Scene, Bisexual Character, Bisexual Character of Color, Bisexual Female Character, Bisexual Female Character of Color, Bisexuality, Bondage and Discipline, Character(s) of Color, Companion Piece, Conditioning, Consensual Kink, Consensual Non-Consent, Control, Corporal Punishment, Dom/sub, Dominance, Drama, F/F, Female Character of Color, Female Characters, Female Friendship, Female Protagonist, Female Relationships, Female-Centric, Heavy BDSM, Human Trafficking, Kinks, LGBTQ Character, LGBTQ Character of Color, LGBTQ Female Character, LGBTQ Female Character of Color, LGBTQ Jewish Character(s), LGBTQ Themes, Lesbian Character, Love, Married Characters, Married Couple, Married Life, Master/Pet, Master/Slave, No Lesbians Die, No Safeword, Not Suitable/Safe For Work, One Shot, Ownership, POV Female Character, POV Queer Character, POV Third Person, Past Tense, Possessive Behavior, Power Dynamics, Power Exchange, Power Imbalance, Protectiveness, Punishment, Queer Character, Queer Culture, Queer Families, Queer Friendly, Queer Themes, Queerplatonic Relationships, Realistic, Romance, Romantic Friendship, Secret Organizations, Sexual Slavery, Slave Trade, Slavery, Strong Female Characters, Submission, Submissive Character, Total Power Exchange, Training, Trans Character, Trans Female Character, Useless Lesbians, Women Being Awesome
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-06
Updated: 2020-08-06
Packaged: 2021-03-06 05:41:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,388
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25738234
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HannahTheScribe/pseuds/HannahTheScribe
Summary: Backstory companion toI'll Give You Everything I Am (You'll Give Me Everything I Want to Be) - Chapter 14."[Jen] punished [Clara] once and decided not to do it again.”Clara puts salt in old wounds, dangerously runs off, and seeks solace in her former trainer before facing the music.Or, Clara fucks shit up.  What it says on the tin.
Relationships: Ezri Roderick/Clara Chen, Jen Lundqvist/Clara Chen
Series: I’ll Give You [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1867054
Comments: 2
Kudos: 19





	The Night That Clara Ran Away

**Author's Note:**

> Want to take the survey and share your opinions about this series? Find the survey [here](https://forms.gle/h2pho3vavpzNT1jr5).
> 
> Want a physical copy or ebook? Find Book One and The First IGY Companion on [Amazon](https://www.amazon.com/Hannah-The-Scribe/e/B08NPX9Q4L). Also, [Goodreads](https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/55955242-i-ll-give-you-everything-i-am). Also find Book One on [Barnes and Noble](https://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/ill-give-you-everything-i-am-hannah-the-scribe/1138275367). 
> 
> Want fun extras like fonts and audio? Check [here](https://hannahthescribe.com/igy/).
> 
> Want more, and have something in mind? Request short stories for this series [here](https://hannahthescribe.com/igy-requests/).
> 
> Want more? Find the whole series on [AO3](https://archiveofourown.org/series/1867054) along with my [other works](https://archiveofourown.org/series/2034871).
> 
> Want the reality? Read my BDSM nonfiction on [Service Slave Secrets](http://www.serviceslavesecrets.com/) or [FetLife](https://fetlife.com/users/7113554/posts/5648128).
> 
> Want a taste of the trainee life? Find my BDSM education classes [here](https://serviceslavesecrets.com/events/).

There was a sound.

A rather loud, incessant sound, and on top of the rain that her senses managed to focus on as she woke, Ezri thought maybe it was thunder.

No, too rhythmic for thunder. The low rumble in the background, right after the flash of light in the dark room; that was thunder.

It hit her that it was someone pounding on the door after she had thrown herself out of bed.

“What the fuck,” she mumbled, grabbing her glasses, halfway down the stairs, flipping on the entry light, looking out the long front window and seeing nothing clearly in the dark and rain even when she finally got the glasses on.

She opened the door, creaking with humidity, the scent of rain pouring in.

“Hi,” Clara whispered.

“Clara,” Ezri breathed, the word the same as the breath she’d been holding. “It’s… late.” She wasn’t sure; she knew she’d gone to bed around ten and been solidly asleep when the knocking began. It was dark; the storm brewing as she drifted off was now worse. “Are you—are you okay?”

It was a dumb question, because something had to be wrong for Clara to be here on her doorstep in the middle of the night, water dripping off the ends of her bangs, clinging to the ends of her hair. She looked like she’d been crying; besides the rain, Ezri smelled alcohol on her. And, eyes adjusting, her car was in the driveway behind her.

“I—it’s… no one’s dead or in the hospital or anything,” she said, looking at the ground, kicking at a puddle. Black socks, no shoes.

“Okay,” said Ezri. That… was good. Her heart rate slowed a little.

“May I… come in?”

“Of course. … Of course.” She opened the door farther and then closed it behind her. “Do you—are you—do you want… something dry?”

“Please.” She was getting water all over the entry. The actual thunder continued outside.

“Did you drive here?”

“Yeah,” she said, not looking at her, and dropped the keys in Ezri’s outstretched hand without further comment.

Ezri came back with pajamas and a towel. Didn’t protest but didn’t look at her when she changed into them in the entry, instead went to the kitchen.

Clara came in a few minutes later, a little dryer but with splotches on the borrowed clothes, noticeable on the gray tee shirt, perhaps noticeable because it wasn’t black and she was wearing it. “I… left stuff in the shower to dry. Tried to throw the towel at the puddle in the front room a bit.” She sat at the island, set her phone on the counter. Ezri slid her water. “Uh… thanks.” She took a sip, stared down at the water, tilted it to and fro in the glass.

“So…” said Ezri.

“So,” said Clara. Her phone lit up with a call. She cleared her throat, looking up. “I fought with Jen.”

“Are you… going to answer that?”

“No,” she said softly, back to staring at the water.

The toaster dinged and Ezri placed the pieces in front of her. Dry toast, black coffee if Ezri felt like giving her a different substance right now, which she didn’t.

Clara started to tear one of the pieces apart without eating it.

“What happened?”

“It was stupid,” she said. “It was really fucking dumb. I dunno. We fought. About—" she cut herself off. "We were drunk. I teased her. She didn’t like it. I pushed. She pushed. It kept going. Y’know. We just… fought.”

“And then you… came here?”

“I stormed off. Ran out. I dunno, I’m a fucking idiot tonight, okay?”

“No,” said Ezri, “it’s not okay. You ran away in the middle of a fight and could’ve gotten yourself killed driving drunk and crying in a storm in the middle of the night. Driving a stick shift, no less. And now you won’t answer your phone.” She gestured to the light up of a new call that was going to be missed. “Do you have any idea what you’re doing to that poor woman?”

“I know,” she said softly.

Ezri’s phone lit up on the counter next, same contact.

“She’s tracking my phone,” Clara said as she realized it.

“I’m answering.”

“No—” Clara grabbed her wrist before she could stop herself. “Please. I just need… give me a minute.”

“Clara—”

“Please. I know. I know I fucked up. I just can’t… hear it right now.”

Ezri closed her eyes and sighed, resting her head in her hands, elbows on the island. “Eat the damn toast, Clara.”

Clara did, placing torn up pieces in her mouth and managing to chew and swallow a few of them without being sick.

“This is what you’re going to do,” said Ezri, looking up as Clara’s phone lit up again. “You’re going to eat the rest of that—” she gestured to the toast “—and drink the water, and you’re going to sleep on the couch, and I am going to take you back to Jen first thing in the morning, and you’re going to accept any and all consequences for your frankly idiotic actions.”

Clara glared at the toast but nodded.

“Meanwhile, you’re going to call Jen, and confirm where you are, tell her what the plan is, and that you’re safe.”

Clara was silent, still.

“Clara.”

“I can’t,” she pleaded.

“What you can’t do is let her worry. She loves you. You love her. You can’t do this to her.”

“She won’t, after this.”

“God, you’re dense,” said Ezri, pacing.

Text. _Just tell me if you’re okay._

_Clara, please._

_Don’t do this to me._

Ezri’s phone. _Is Clara with you?_

_Is she okay?_

_Fuck, tell her I love her._

Clara refused to look at the messages. “You really think—she’ll take me back?”

Ezri rolled her eyes. “Yes, I think the woman who has tried to reach us a combined ten times in the last three minutes cares enough to not discard you.”

“What if she doesn’t?”

“She’s not dismissing you.”

“If she does,” Clara said, wide eyed, “would you take me?”

“She won’t. She loves you. And you love her. And you’ll go home tomorrow and everything will seem clearer.”

“Okay,” said Clara. “Could—could you do it?”

Her phone was lighting up again. “Okay,” she said, and picked it up.

“Ezri—thank God—Clara—is she with you? We fought; she ran off; she was drunk; she took the car; the weather’s so awful—is she there?”

“She’s here,” said Ezri; Clara avoided looking at her, biting her lip, able to hear both sides of the conversation. “She’s fine.”

Jen, too, was crying, and Ezri sighed at both of them. “Okay—okay. As long as she’s fine.”

“I’ll take her back first thing in the morning.”

“Good.” Jen sniffled, breathed. “Don’t let her drive.”

“I have her keys.”

“Good. Thank you. Fuck. Can I—talk to her?”

Ezri looked at Clara, who continued to avoid looking at her, fidgeting with the hem of the shirt, eyes fixated on the motions. “I don’t think she’s ready for that yet.”

“Okay,” said Jen reluctantly. “Well—tell her to call. Send her my love. And raging disappointment.”

“I will.”

“I’ll, um… I’ll let you go, then?” Hesitancy was strange on her.

“Call, or text, if you need anything.”

“Okay.” Quietly, “I’m glad she has you.”

“We’ll see you in the morning.”

“Okay. G'night.”

“Good night.”

She hung up, though Ezri’s phone quickly lit up with another text as her and Clara were still silent, one last thanks.

“I need the bathroom,” Clara mumbled, out of the room before Ezri could call her on the lie.

When she managed to stop that round of tears and came back, she found Ezri sitting on the couch looking like she was about to get a migraine, face in her hands, though it was probably just the stress she’d induced. She paced over to her and would’ve liked to say it was old habit that had her kneeling in front of her, propping her chin on her knee like nothing had changed, but it was a little more than that.

Ezri looked at her for a moment, sighed, and stroked her hair, thinking, _You get one minute._

They’d spent enough hours like this for the silence to be comfortable for a minute.

Clara’s hair was strangely silky under her touch considering it had just finally dried, the way her bangs fluttered through her fingers familiar.

“You should sleep,” Ezri told her. “If you can.”

“Did she say anything else?” Clara asked, which was both a diversion and not.

“Not really.” She wasn’t going to tell her, but looking at Clara on her knees with those scared brown eyes, she added, “I told her to give you extra lashes from me.”

“Gee, thanks.” She didn’t wait for Ezri’s sigh before looking up at her and saying, “Thank you,” softer. She knew Ezri’s discipline was a strange form of love and thus Ezri’s favoritism, back then, had given her the most severe of it.

“Of course.” Also soft, a little dry, perhaps only so soft because of the gentle, massaging press of her fingers against her scalp. Her head was pounding; it felt nice. “And if you ever find yourself doing something this imbecilic again without Jen available to beat the shit out of you, I’ll do it.”

“Good.”

“Come on.” Ezri nudged her off and stood. “You should still go to sleep.”

Clara stood too, but only to get curled up on the couch, pulling the throw draped over it over herself. She remembered at least one night that had found them both under it.

“I’ll see you in the morning.”

“Good night,” she mumbled, and Ezri shut the light on her way out.

The morning was very quiet. Ezri took her back in her car with a plan to get a ride share back, and, with a disappointed look, texted Jen for her when they left. It was entirely too bright outside.

Clara started to panic the closer they got. “Do you really think—it’ll be okay?” she asked again.

“Yes,” said Ezri firmly. _She's three months ahead on paying you off._

Clara closed her eyes, leaned back against the headrest, feeling sick. “God, I hope you’re right.”

They sat in the driveway for a minute in silence. “Thank you,” she said finally, finding Ezri’s hand with one of hers and squeezing, “for everything.”

“Of course,” Ezri sighed, but squeezed back.

“I love you,” said Clara, with a bit of a question on the end, hopeful, like she needed to hear it from someone and didn’t expect it to be Jen today.

“I love you, too,” said Ezri, very quietly.

Clara kissed her cheek. “Wish me luck? Wrong phrase?”

Ezri offered only a grim smile.

“Okay. I’ll go.” She shut the door quickly behind her and walked swiftly to the door and knocked before she could lose her nerve.

It opened quickly.

Her heart pounded.

“Come in.”

For once, unreadable. She did. Jen shut the door.

Alone, she sunk to her knees at Jen’s feet, head low, silent. Jen paced around her a few times and the silence was uncomfortable, but she held it—Ezri had taught her how to do that, at least, if she hadn’t taught her whatever would’ve kept last night from happening.

Jen paused in front of her and slapped her, hard. Clara whimpered.

“So,” said Jen. “Where do we start? General insubordination. Running away even with orders to stay put. Almost getting yourself killed on the road. Almost giving Ezri a heart attack. Failure to answer my calls, one of my only rules. Failure to call me when I ordered you to.”

Clara said nothing. There was nothing good to say and she hadn’t been prompted. _Failure failure failure_ echoed in her head, and she finally held her tongue.

Jen hit her again. She whimpered again.

“Do you have any idea how fucking scared I was?” Jen demanded. “I don’t think I ask for a lot. But knowing you’re fucking _alive_ is a pretty big one. I've given you privilege after privilege and you throw it all back at me by going so far past the line I made hard to cross to begin with. I thought you could handle it. I thought you’d understand that when I tell you to obey, even if I don’t demand things often, you do. Do you understand that?”

“Yes, Mistress,” she whispered.

She did. It hadn’t been a problem before. Jen knew it, too. That Clara didn’t push when it counted. She teased, day to day, but knew when to stop. She obeyed when told and tried to make herself useful.

A lot of it was the dumb little stuff—she’d volunteer to go check on the noise a cat was making when they were both settled in bed without complaint; she let Jen pick the restaurant or the movie without comment no matter how bland or boring she found it; she took care of her tirelessly when they were both equally sick, indulged her whims and flaws without real ridicule.

Last night had gotten out of hand so quickly neither of them understood what exactly had happened.

“If I tell you to stay, you stay,” Jen said, softer. “If people can teach their dogs to stay so they can keep them from getting hit by a car, I think you can manage it. You are going to behave, you are going to answer my calls, you are going to obey my orders, and you are sure as hell going to learn to place some value on your own life.”

“Yes, Mistress. I’m sorry.” Daring, for a moment, to look up at her. “It won’t happen again. I’ll—do all of that. Anything you want. If you let me stay.” She lowered her gaze again, waiting, waiting for exactly what she had expected, exactly what would prove Ezri wrong; she knew—some part of her knew—the implication Jen’s words had was that she would get a chance to prove herself again, and yet…

She flinched when Jen touched her, but she didn’t hit her again, cupped her cheek with a gentle touch, and said, “Look at me.”

Clara’s eyes flitted back up to hers, but she couldn’t bear it for long; Jen crouched in front of her, prodded her chin up. “Look at me,” she said again, gentler, closer, and Clara did. “You’re not going anywhere. I can’t lose you. That’s exactly why I was so angry. Okay?”

“Okay,” she whispered, and the words felt much more natural between them, Jen’s lips at the bridge of her nose, the beginnings of forgiveness.

Jen straightened. “Up.”

Clara stood.

“Bedroom. Strip, kneel, and wait for me.”

“Yes, Mistress.” She went.

It felt strange, being home and yet not feeling accepted back just yet, even knowing that feeling would come later. Like she was seeing it for the first time, like it was someone else’s. Even the cats seemed to be watching her with new curiosity. Finding the bedroom door closed when she got there, she shut it against them behind her.

The bedroom had been straightened up even in her absence which was strange in its own way—she wasn’t sure Jen had ever told her to make the bed; she just did it; but it was made now, which usually didn’t happen without her, and she didn’t think it had been that sleepless of a night.

The only thing out of place was the flogger on the bed, thin black leather tails pointed and tipped with metal. Her heart beat a little faster.

She’d felt the whip before; but she’d never been punished before. While Jen had the right to it—the right to whatever she wanted; she could whip her an hour a day for all the contract said—she’d never laid out a system, never done it, never—even today—technically said she would.

The thoughts came quickly as she did as told, stripped out of her clothes, which felt nice—the stiffness of dried rainwater not the most comfortable thing she’d ever worn—and knelt and waited.

It would hurt. Not in the way she liked. There wasn’t much she could do about that except bolt out the door again, which she knew—consequences aside—she would not do. Her head still hurt, and she was tired—emotionally, and from a poor night’s sleep on Ezri’s couch.

Jen did not make her wait long. Came in, shut the door, looked at her from just beyond the doorway in a way that made her ache for that touch and closeness again; she thought of the whip on the bed, not made for small spaces; she knew she’d take it, do anything to have this over with, as she’d promised.

"Over the bed." 

"Yes, Mistress." The whispered response was unnecessary as she obeyed the command, but she was eager to offer submission again in any way she could. She noted, too, the lack of restraints. The expectation she'd submit freely even when it hurt.

Jen picked up the whip and Clara flinched even to know she was holding it. She whimpered in anticipation and was surprised when it was matched by Jen’s shaky inhale behind her. She wanted, in a way, to reassure her, of what she didn’t know, but the whip fell on her skin and the thought scattered from her mind.

She hissed; fuck, this was going to suck. Jen was not holding back from the start. They played hard as it was, and this wasn't play. 

Another, another, another. She writhed as the stinging, sharp, burning strokes continued, but kept any serious struggling in check. On and on.

“I can’t believe you,” said Jen, but her voice lacked the sharpness of the whip, wavering. “If someone had told me that you would do something this stupid, I would’ve laughed at them.”

They both would’ve; nothing seemed very funny right now, though.

“Maybe they did tell me. People said I let you do too much, get away with too much, let you act too far above your position, wasn’t pedantic enough, didn’t ask for enough. Whatever the hell it was.” This anger was far better than that wavering. The whip kept coming. “And I defended you and defended you and defended you. I kept doing it. I let you on the furniture, I let you call me by name, I let you set your own schedule—and I just kept thinking, it doesn’t matter, it doesn’t matter—you do what I say, don’t you? If I told you no, you stopped. So how the hell do you think I felt when I realized you hadn’t stopped when I told you no? It all came back. Other people talking about us. Hell, partners who said I wasn’t strict enough. And that was before you ran off. We’ll get there.”

The tears came more easily from the lecture than the pain; she knew people had questioned Jen on certain leniencies and she often responded with exactly that— _if I told her to, she would. That’s all I need to know._ Or she'd prove it. If the disbelief came at her place next to Jen on the couch, she’d often kick her off of it for a minute simply to prove the lack of argument.

“So if you didn’t stop when I told you to, what did I have left? If I can’t say no to you, where does that leave me?”

“Mistress—” she whispered.

“—Fucking nowhere, that’s where.” An especially hard blow landed on her shoulder; she whimpered and the words went quiet.

“And that would’ve been enough. I was thinking, well, there goes nothing. If I can’t say no to you at the end of the day and you don’t even give the illusion I can, then what? And when do you most submit to me? When do you make a point of deference?”

_Oh, fuck, please don’t say that, please—I know, I know—_

“Tell me.” There was a bit of that waver.

She gained control of the sobs she’d barely been aware of before enough to get out, “When—when I need you, Mistress.”

“That’s right.” Another particularly bad strike. Her body going rigid from trying not to react, to struggle. “When _you_ need me. When _you_ need structure. When you’re lost. When you feel alone. I—” The anger, already fading, broke. Jen, too, tried to gain control of sobs from behind her.

_Please don’t cry. You can say whatever you want, actually, just please don’t cry—_

“I never understood it,” Jen whispered; Clara became vaguely aware the whip had stopped coming as her breath abruptly did. “I thought—you’re upset—why do you want me being pedantic now? Of all times? But I got it—late last night. I thought, it’s basically a shorter leash. So it’s closeness. In a way.”

She wondered, suddenly, if Ezri had told her about a particular moment last night, if she should do it herself—not, of course, right now.

“Isn’t it?” Jen asked, far too soft, far too shaky.

“Yes, Mistress,” she admitted.

“Which… makes sense. It’s not—just asking for stricter control, but for everything that comes with it. Intimacy. Which was a lot easier to wrap my head around wanting when you’re hurting. It felt—less wrong, like that, that you weren’t asking for dominance then, but… closeness.” The whip was moving again, but caressing her, the light scratch of the flogger ends against her already burning skin. “I got it—why you’d start asking me to decide things when you could barely think about them, why you’d come and kneel next to me on the worst days, why you’d toss and turn all night and call me Mistress in the morning. But…” Shaky breath. “It went wrong.”

Last night, after a long day, a lot of wine—kneeling in front of her, and Jen’s look like, _What the fuck are you doing?_

She hadn’t liked that look. “What?” she’d grumbled, resting her forehead on Jen’s lap. “Not Dom enough to deal with me on the floor for a minute?”

It had sounded a lot less sharp in her head.

Silence. Longer than there ever was in this house, especially when it was Jen’s turn to say something. Clara looked up at her. _Too far._ The look on her face said everything; it was something Clara had appreciated early on, learning where those lines were—Jen’s expression never hid anything, let alone her words. _Way too far._

“What did you just say to me?”

 _Fuck. Shit. No—_ “You looked at me like I was crazy,” she said. “Just—never mind.” She probably should’ve apologized, but the look hurt, the implication that this action, the feeling behind it maybe, was so unusual, and she wanted the words to hurt, too, just not this much.

Thinking about it now, she realized she’d stabbed right into the sensitivity of preexisting judgment, the people who thought Jen was too soft on her, too lenient, not controlling enough, not dominating enough—just as Jen’s momentary bewilderment had cut straight through the feelings of not being quiet and submissive and proper and useful enough. There was a reason she had not brought the topic of the argument to Ezri.

“It went wrong,” Jen repeated now. “I understand that. That when you wanted reassurance and control, I acted like it was a stupid thing to ask for. I get it.” Pause, breathing, getting herself together; a moment of feeling grateful she didn’t have to look at her. “You were still instantly so far over the line I didn’t even know what to do.” As if remembering something she could do about it, she began with the whip again.

So it would be like that. The closest comparison—one of their scenes that waxed and waned over the course of hours, ebbed and flowed, long and cyclic.

And yet, play was a faulty comparison. But the only other real discipline she’d been subjected to was Ezri’s, which came swift and severe and then it was over as quickly as it began, no waiting, no drawn out lectures, no long pauses in pain, no longstanding consequences.

The whip hurt far worse than Ezri’s cane but she had the feeling it had little to do with the implement itself.

The tears came again easily. The whip kept coming.

“You will communicate your needs and feelings like an adult,” Jen told her, over the sounds of the lashes, “and not try to throw them back at me or poke for a reaction like you’re a brat. Because you’re not. Whatever people say, you’re a good girl for me. I know that. You know that. And we’re going to be done trying to prove what we already know.”

Quiet, the whip on her skin, processing, mind and heart racing, though her body seemed done trying to struggle, nearly limp as the pain built and built. Quiet, for a long while.

“Then it all got out of hand, last night. I was hurt and you were hurt and we both lost control. I lost control of you. _You_ lost control of you. I couldn’t believe it. I have _never_ seen you like that before. You weren’t listening and everything seemed to make it worse. I told you to stop talking and you just fucking _wouldn’t_.”

There was the anger, the frustration; the lashes fell harder, and that was better, that was easier, than the tears and regret.

“And then you stormed off. I should’ve stopped you and I meant to grab you but I think I just went into shock. You were gone before I managed to follow you. I didn’t know what the hell had happened. I thought you’d lost your mind. I had no idea what your intentions were when you left, if you planned to come back, if you were self destructive, I _knew_ you weren’t safe driving like that and I really thought about calling the police, but I couldn’t think. I was scared witless. Do you understand that? Do you have any fucking idea?”

“Yes, Mistress,” she whimpered between sobs. Fuck. She hadn’t known what she was doing, either. But she’d known, thought, she didn’t have any radical intentions. Jen didn’t even have that.

“God.” She stopped with the whip. “I— _fuck_.” She hit her again, hard, but once, and her breathing came labored, shaky, hiccups. “You scared the _hell_ out of me, Clara.” Hit her again. Flinch. “Do you not get that? I keep feeling like there’s something here you have to not _get_.”

“I get it now,” she said.

“Okay,” said Jen, softer. “… Okay.”

The whip fell again, over and over; it hurt, everywhere it could reach. She couldn’t see the blood but she knew it was there. The writhing spells were about as useless as the tears. She refused to plead as much as she refused to physically resist. 

_You deserve it you deserve it you deserve it—_

“I don’t _like_ doing this,” said Jen. “You know that. This isn’t something I really _do_ but I am about out of options. If you won’t take a dozen warnings, what else am I supposed to do? If talking doesn’t work to start with, how is it supposed to get us forward now? This isn’t my thing and it isn’t yours, either, and I think we’ve both learned that the hard way at some point. Speaking of which.” The whip stopped coming abruptly. Softer, “You scared the hell out of Ezri, too.”

She whimpered. In a different way, but yes, she had.

“And I don’t think she was thrilled that you disregarded not only my orders but _her_ training and effort to get you where you are. Not to mention disregarding your own safety, which you somehow missed both of us being very invested in. And then you showed up like she was supposed to fix the problems you caused. So.” Pause, the whip caressing her, a threat but barely there. “You get a dozen from her. You can count them. Just the number will do. You can thank her later.” Pause again.

“Yes, Mistress,” she said softly, unsure if Jen was waiting for it or not.

The whip came again. “One. Two.” Yelp. “Three. Four.” Sobs, panting, “Five.” Twelve had never seemed like so many of anything. More. “E-eleven. _Twelve_.” Relief; at least the strokes wouldn’t come like this anymore, though she refused to let herself think they might be over all together, sinking against the bed, limp and crying. God, crying was exhausting; God, her head hurt. Not to mention everything else.

"You may stop counting." The whip fell over and over; she wasn’t numb to the rhythm of lashes; Jen made sure she felt every last one. “And all that would’ve been enough, too. God, it would’ve. Insulting me and running off and nearly killing yourself. And then you didn’t answer your phone. You know how many hard and fast rules I have? Five. Of which you managed to break four in one go. Disrespect and disobedience. There's rule number one. Nearly killing yourself. Rule number two—stay safe. Not answering my calls. Rule number three. Not telling me any of your plans around leaving the house. Rule number four. Were those too complicated for you?"

"No, Mistress." 

The response, agonizing minutes of silence.

It stopped. “Clara…” Jen said her name softly, much more softly than it deserved, voice shaking. “You’re not going to do this again. You can’t do this to me. I can’t lose you. Promise me.”

“I promise,” she whispered.

Footsteps, the creak of the medicine cabinet in the bathroom, a tearing of paper, footsteps. “This’ll sting,” Jen said, quiet but unapologetic, running what had to be an antiseptic wipe over the wounds.

If she only needed the one, maybe they weren’t as bad as they felt. It did sting, but compared to the last… however long it had been, it wasn’t the worst thing in the world.

Footsteps again. Jen at her side again, sitting on the floor next to her, leaning back against the foot of the bed. “C’mere.”

Clara crawled over and curled up in her lap and cried, and wasn’t sure how she was still doing it; Jen tucked Clara’s head under her chin and shushed her and rocked her and said, “It’s okay, sweetheart. It’s okay.” Her own tears fell on Clara’s hair. She only ever called her sweetheart when Clara was hurt; it was always sweetie, otherwise. Darling, with sarcasm. “It’s okay now.” She drew back and pressed a trembling kiss to the bridge of her nose, reached for a nearby water bottle and offered it; they both took some. Clara's mouth was so dry her tongue stuck to the inside of it. Quiet, for a few minutes. Relief. The feeling of being home, safe and sound, in Jen’s arms.

“Let’s never do this again,” Jen mumbled into her hair.

“Okay.”

“I mean it. Unless you manage to do something equally…” She trailed off. “I won’t do this for less.”

“Okay.”

“And for more, I’d probably just murder you.”

Clara smiled. “Okay.”

“Okay.” Jen pulled her closer. Clara leant her head on her shoulder. Jen kissed her, long and slow and deep and it felt _right_. It held the same love as every strike with the whip.

She drew back, leant against the bed. “I’m starving. What are we doing for lunch?”

Clara giggled. “Anything you want, Mistress.”

“See, that has a ring to it. Maybe we’re missing something after all.”

“If you say so.”

“I like that phrase, too.” She smiled at her. “But I think we’ll see how those first five rules go, huh?”

Clara, too, smiled, but lowered her gaze.

“And like I said,” said Jen, tilting her head back up, “we’re done trying to prove what we already know. You’re mine, and you’re a good girl. And I love you and you love me. If people can’t see that, it’s not my job to get them glasses.”

“Okay.” Clara snuggled into her; the air was getting cold on her burning skin. Jen held her tightly.

Lunch forgotten, they stayed like that for a long time.

**Author's Note:**

> Want to take the survey and share your opinions about this series? Find the survey [here](https://forms.gle/h2pho3vavpzNT1jr5).
> 
> Want a physical copy or ebook? Find Book One and The First IGY Companion on [Amazon](https://www.amazon.com/Hannah-The-Scribe/e/B08NPX9Q4L). Also, [Goodreads](https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/55955242-i-ll-give-you-everything-i-am). Also find Book One on [Barnes and Noble](https://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/ill-give-you-everything-i-am-hannah-the-scribe/1138275367). 
> 
> Want fun extras like fonts and audio? Check [here](https://hannahthescribe.com/igy/).
> 
> Want more, and have something in mind? Request short stories for this series [here](https://hannahthescribe.com/igy-requests/).
> 
> Want more? Find the whole series on [AO3](https://archiveofourown.org/series/1867054) along with my [other works](https://archiveofourown.org/series/2034871).
> 
> Want the reality? Read my BDSM nonfiction on [Service Slave Secrets](http://www.serviceslavesecrets.com/) or [FetLife](https://fetlife.com/users/7113554/posts/5648128).
> 
> Want a taste of the trainee life? Find my BDSM education classes [here](https://serviceslavesecrets.com/events/).


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